


Something Pure

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam wakes up with no idea where he is. No fur or wet nose nuzzling his hand, no warm skin pressed to his, no scent of lavendar tickling his nose and making him fight a sneeze. Just empty space and the cold metal of a lamp his hand finds in the dark.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He squints. Of course. He’s not in Amelia’s bed and house anymore, is he? He’s in some no name motel again.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>With Dean.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Pure

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by post Purgatory Dean appearing to be more coomfortable on the floor than his bed..

_Dean: “But there was something about being there that felt pure.”  
\- We Need to Talk About Kevin, 8.01 –_

Sam wakes up with no idea where he is. No fur or wet nose nuzzling his hand, no warm skin pressed to his, no scent of lavendar tickling his nose and making him fight a sneeze. Just empty space and the cold metal of a lamp his hand finds in the dark.

He squints. Of course. He’s not in Amelia’s bed and house anymore, is he? He’s in some no name motel again.

With Dean.

Sam’s head turns to his left and his heart is done beating slowly.

Because the shadows are enough to see that Dean _is not there_. Dean’s bed is empty and Dean 

Is 

Not 

There.

For one wild moment Sam wonders if this is a terrifying mindfuck he finally fell for. Any second it will be Lucifer, a straitjacket, and four white walls he’ll be strapped inside until his brain finally bursts from exhaustion...

He fumbles for the bedside light, mouth dry.

“Dean?”

Silence. 

“Yeah?” Cautious, wary, and strangely muffled.

Sam throws the covers off and walks around the bottom of Dean’s bed. To where Dean is stretched out on the floor parallel to it. He’s on his left side facing the door. His back is to the bed itself and he’s gotten rid of his jacket and one of his shirts, but that’s it. He’s still in his boots.

Dean’s eyes are closed, his breathing seems even enough, and Sam really does not know what to make of it.

“Um, are you...? Can I get you something?”

Dean says nothing.

“Dean, you’re on the floor, man. What’s wrong?”

Dean opens one eye and glares. “I know I’m on the fucking floor, genius. Leave it.”

The switch from vein-bursting worry to relief to weird is beyond Sam right now. He is too strung out on the last twelve hours to ‘leave it’, thank you very much. He looks at his own bed then down at Dean again. This sharp-edged Dean who has told him more about Purgatory his first day back than he told Sam about Hell in their entire first month together. So no, there is no way he can leave it. If Dean and hunting and all the stomach aches that go with it are here in his life again, then Dean can just up and fill Sam the fuck in on why he’s sleeping on a barely carpeted floor without so much as a pillow or a blanket or a... Oh. 

_Oh, Dean_

“Dean.”

He says it aloud in the wrong, soft tone. He can see it instantly in the flush that stains Dean’s face, the muscles that reset themselves in a hard, tense line from head to boot.

“Laugh it up, why don’t you, and then just fucking turn the light off and go back to bed.”

Sam stumbles back fast enough to catch his heel on the hard corner of the bed and yelp. Dean opens both eyes at that. He mutters something and lays back down.

Sam walks back around to his own bed and thinks about switching the light off. He doesn’t. He does, however, pull two pillows and both covers off the beds. Then he straighten and takes a minute.

He thinks of the time he’s spent on crisp, clean bedsheets, changed every two days or so and color coordinated with all the throws. He thinks of the smell of cinnamon toast in the morning, of friendly paws lying across his feet at night, and of spilt coffee on her favorite pillow as the reason for a fight lasting a day. Then he thinks of never being able to close your eyes and fully rest. He thinks of thirty one flavors of nasty, and of the rocks and the hunt and the hard, packed earth Dean has spent a year staying alive on. He thinks of that last one until he sways, and then he lies down on the floor next to his brother.

“What in holy fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Dean is awake and angry, clutching that damn hatchet to his chest like Sam is there to take it.

“I’m bringing you a pillow and a cover. It’s cold in here, Dean.”

Dean glares, eyes searching, and Sam has the sense not to look away, however weird it is to lie on a floor side by side facing Dean like this. It’s stupidly tense and Dean does not take the pillow, although he doesn’t kick off the blanket Sam threw over his legs before he lay down. Sam is not entirely sure he’s not going to be scrambling out of the way any minute...but Dean must find what he’s looking for. Dean’s shoulders go down a fraction of an inch and he tucks the handle of the blade back under the arm his face is resting on. “Yeah, well. You don’t have to be on the floor with me to do that, Sam.”

Sam shrugs. They stay like that a few moments longer. Neither of them is smiling, but Sam thinks the moment to bolt may have passed. He clears his throat and lifts his chin toward the weapon.

“Did you make this?”

Dean blinks. He tightens his grip on the handle. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“It’s amazing. Can I?” Sam lifts his left hand in a vague gesture at the thing, and after a pause, Dean slides it out from under his head and onto the floor space between them.

“Wow,” whispers Sam, because honestly, he’s never seen anything like it. The handle is warm and smooth, with nicks and stains Sam is not going to ask about. But the blade...he’s not sure if it’s bone or metal, or what the hell Dean found to tie it to the handle with. The binding smells odd and is sticky looking, but the blade itself gleams in the low light. 

“Careful,” murmurs Dean when Sam reaches out to touch. Sam nods in acknowledgement and holds his breath a little as he runs his fingers over its cool surface. It’s pocked and uneven, and bears the mark of different hand held tools thinning it over time, and it is seriously awesome.

“You like?” asks Dean gruffly.

Sam nods. “You always were the inventive one.”

Finally, the right thing to say. Dean’s eyes crinkle a little. “Damn straight. Now get on your back.”

“What?” It’s Sam’s turn to blink and feel unsure.

Dean rolls his eyes as he eases the weapon back under himself. “Relax, princess. I can’t see the door, is all, if you and your gigantic shoulders are going to stay here.”

Sam does, almost undone at how fucking _normal_ that suddenly sounds – floorboards and hatchets instead of pillows notwithstanding, of course.

“Sure, I. Yeah. Is this...?”

Dean pushes at him – gently, though. “Night, Sam. Just stay still, and do not fucking snore.”

 

Sam doesn’t think they move or touch much during the night, and it’s probably more penance undertaken than comfort given on Sam’s part. Also, when he wakes in the morning, he’s sore all over. But when he looks, Dean is still asleep, a pillow finally between his brother’s head and the weapon. Dean’s right hand is lightly curled around Sam’s upper arm, and Sam cannot stop looking at those scarred, tanned fingers. Are they they there to anchor Sam, Dean, or just to make sure Sam doesn’t flail out and hit him? He has no idea, but he makes himself settle back down. Dean’s fingers tighten a little and Sam closes his eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, they can do this one more time. 

******


End file.
